Haruki Murakami, �Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World�
[Warning: This is long, but there are allusions to sex and prostitution, so keep reading...]
In the little roundup entry that I posted two and a half hours ago, I was a little hard on myself for finishing so few books in comparison with years previous. I can�t really be too harsh, though; I�ve been busy. When I first started at the nightclub after moving to Hawaii, we were open three nights a week. Now we�re open every day, and I work six out of those seven nights. Plus, when I was in California, I would go to the coffee shop around the corner an hour or two before my shift started to read and load up on caffeine. I still leave early for work now, but since my rule is coffee in the daylight hours and whiskey when it�s dark, well, it�s a different dynamic. And the dive bar where I whittle away my time before starting is a little too dark and noisy to get much reading done.
And then there are the hours. I don�t know if this other bartenders have this same problem, but I have a very hard time getting home at three a.m. and simply going to sleep. The idea of going to work and going to sleep immediately afterward simply doesn�t sit well with me. Instead, I end up writing or watching adult swim cartoons until I pass out, usually when the sun is coming up. I then have enough time to get cleaned up when I wake, eat, and repeat the cycle.
I try to compensate by reading on the nights while I�m working the door but the interruptions are too frequent to really pay attention, especially when you�re reading something like this particular book which requires a certain amount of concentration. And so the cycle repeats. I occasionally will find time to read at home (as going out for coffee in Hawaii just seems like a stupid idea. One, it�s usually too hot, and too, traffic is horrible right about the time I usually wake).
Yes, those are all valid excuses, but really, the one that holds the most water is simply from being too tired because of all the late nights working at the club. The sleep cycle I�ve had recently made it near impossible to get anything done and when I would get the elusive one day off (which has been sporadic) I would find myself so grateful that I didn�t have to go to work that I refused to do anything. No shopping for food. No visiting with my father. No excursions to the beach. Worst of all, no reviews for the Weekly.
I don�t know if you noticed, but I haven�t put up any links for bar reviews from the newspaper in a while. That�s because I hadn�t written any. I�d be full of good intentions the night previously, plotting out where to go and who with. Then the next day would roll around, I�d sleep through three-fourths of it, then decide to wait until rush hour traffic was finished, and fall asleep again.
I was starting to get really angry and disappointed with myself. Yes, everybody deserves to have a few lazy days where they get nothing accomplished, and yes, I had only one of those days a week, if I was lucky. But I knew that the newspaper liked me and were interested in having me intern, which could lead to an actual job. I cannot bartend for the rest of my life, nor would I want to. Obviously then, I should be putting more attention to things that were more important.
I finally kicked myself back into gear a few days ago, writing two reviews in a single night. I sent them in and the next morning got an e-mail from my editor saying how glad she was that I was back. And it felt good to be back. The problem was, with those reviews (the first of which should probably be published on Wednesday), I had now used up my allotment of bars and clubs to write about. That meant I had to find more places.
On Sunday, I decided to do exactly that. One of the things that the Honolulu Weekly likes about me is that I�m not a dance club whore. As a matter of fact, dance clubs generally bug me. When I went out and found a local unknown dive bar called Aloha Lounge, I got praise and hints to keep that angle up. My editor even told me they were getting ready to kill the column, since too many people covered the same stupid dance clubs over and over.
I decided I needed to find more of these little unknown, unpretentious gems. I drove into the shitty part of town.
This is where some of the locals who read this site may start snickering.
Back in April when I had to renew my driver�s license, I noticed a small sports lounge across the street in a dilapidated strip mall. This was in the one area that I�ve found where it�s possible to forget that you�re in Hawaii. It�s essentially the industrial area of Oahu. There�s no greenery. You can�t see the palm trees everywhere as rundown buildings covered in graffiti block them out. There isn�t even any greenery, as most of the grass has dies into a dull brown color. It looks like the slums in Oakland.
Perfect.
I pulled into their parking lot, only to find that the sports lounge was closed on Sunday. I don�t know much about sports, but isn�t Sunday when most of them are played? I felt the laziness factor start to kick in; a desire to go home and search out bars on another day. Resisting, I looked down the street and saw another bar�s signage down the street and decided to check it out.
I walked in and it seemed perfect. The place was obviously a converted Chinese restaurant. There were booths everywhere with plush seating and mirrors to facilitate feng shui. In short, it had interesting character. The only problem was getting information about the place. I asked some questions to the hostess and bartender, but wasn�t getting anywhere. The English skills of the hostess were too limited to get anything substantial and the bartender, a huge muscle-bound mass, wasn�t interested in making conversation. Finally, he referred me to a guy in the corner, whom he said was hosting tonight�s event.
I walked over and the guy walked up to great me. �Hey,� he said, �are you a member?�
�That depends,� I said. �A member of what?�
�Well, if you don�t know...�
�Oh, it�s one of those memberships, huh? Well, actually, I�m here with the Honolulu Weekly, and I was thinking about writing about this place. They told me to talk to you.�
�Oh, no,� He said, dropping my hand. �We don�t want any publicity. Thanks anyway.� He started to walk away.
Huh? A promoter who doesn�t want publicity? I figured he misunderstood me.
�I�m not selling you an advertisement or anything,� I said. �It�s for the Night Shift column, where we just write about places that are cool to visit.�
�Well, sure,� he said, �this is a nice hostess bar. But this is more like a private party for our members. You sure you�re not a member? You look like one.�
�Why, what�s a member look like?�
The promoter shook his head and smiled. �I�m just fucking with you. But no, I don�t want you writing about this.� He sat down and rejoined the conversation with his friends at his table.
Oooookay.
There wasn�t any one else in the bar. One of the few pieces of information I managed to get out of the bartender was that it usually got busy around nine. Seeing as it was only 7:45 and drinks were expensive, I thought perhaps I could find something else in the area and come back. After all, I don�t need a promoter to spoon feed me information anyway. I went outside and noticed another bar across the way. I got the brilliant idea to go there and fritter away some time, which would then give me two places to write about.
Walking in, I thought this place would be even better. It was a tiny joint, all available areas stuffed with tables and touch-screen video games, with some dart boards and the ever-present karaoke machine in the corner. I sat down at the edge of the bar and starting making mental notes. In many ways, it was like the Aloha Lounge that I wrote about which was loved by my editors; a small, no frills local dive.
Perfect.
Like the Aloha Lounge, there weren�t many people inside and so I wasn�t surprised when the owner sat down next to me and started a conversation. It�s a simple matter of building a customer base. She asked me how I happened upon her establishment and I told her what I did as a reporter � that I simply saw the club and decided to stop in. When I told her I worked for the Weekly, she told me that she had tried advertising but thought it was too expensive. I explained that since this was an article, it wouldn�t cost her anything so it could be considered free publicity, hoping that this would encourage her to continue our conversation.
And that�s where things got weird.
She asked about the job and I told her. Then she asked my age, and said I looked much younger, leaning forward and touching my shoulder. Then she asked if I was married.
�No...� I said.
�You have girlfriend?�
�Sort of...�
�You buy me drink, and I�ll talk to you. I�ll buy you next one later.� Her hand went to my leg, her finger splaying over to slide over the inseam of my thigh.
I�ve done enough of these reviews where I�m offered free drinks, and I always refuse. My standard answer is, �Hey, after the article is published, if I come back, you can buy me drinks all night long if you like. Right now, however, I�m working, so I have to buy my own drinks.�
I didn�t get that far into my explanation. She already signaled the bartender, who placed a non-alcoholic drink in front of the woman. �My drink more expensive, though,� she said in her thick Asian accent. �My drink 20 dollar.�
Now, I�ve been to Tijuana. My band played in Tijuana and we were warned about all the scams. This was one of them. The woman talks to you, asks you to buy her a drink, and then you get a bill for $50 and when you don�t pay, they beat the hell out of you. If you do pay, well... I don�t really know what happens if you do pay, because I�m not that stupid or desperate. I had to do something, and do it quickly.
�No,� I said, �I�m not buying that drink, and you should remember that I�m a reporter.�
�Ok, ten dollar,� she said.
�No! And again, I�m a reporter. I write about things that happens to me, and everybody reads it.�
�Sometime you need to pay to get story, yeah?�
�No. No, I don�t,� I said.
The woman pushed her drink back to the bar, whereupon the woman behind the bar shot me an accusatory look. �You no buy drink?� she said to me, scowling.
I looked around and noticed the two large men now scowling at me from both sides of the bar. I picked up my beer, drained it in one gulp, glared at the bartender and said no, I wasn�t going to buy her a drink. And then I got the fuck out of there.
I got in my car and locked the door. Driving away, I started laughing maniacally. And then I saw the lounge that I had left previously, the one where they had the private, unexplained memberships and didn�t want any publicity.
Holy shit.
I think I just figured out what �Hostess bar� means. My interest and training in journalism is in investigative reporting. And I�ve just figured out that this so-called island paradise is, in actuality, a den of depravity.
Awesome.
The problem is, I�m far too much of a prude to do this kind of undercover work. So I need a wingman. Somehow, I don�t think that would be hard to find, knowing my friends. I�m currently accepting applications.
